The Gleaning of the Romantic
It is in the subtlety
And not the blunt insult.
The threat and not the onslaught.
The implied and not the explicit.
It is in the first gleaning scent of Spring
And not the direct overhead heat of Summer.
The autumnal dread and not the dead of Winter.
The sweet dream of sleep and not the bleak mourning after.
It is in the thought and not the action;
And the moments between these extremes:
That you can alter your life, redeem your soul,
When somewhere between the gift,
And it’s crumpled paper wrapping,
Lie an infinity of finite things that can be chosen:
But of a thousand ends if I must choose one,
I would settle for the choice, alone, and forego the choosing…
John Tansey Early in 08
Copyright ©2008 John Thomas Tansey
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.